F is for FOXGLOVE

With turgid stems and grasping roots,
Begin this flower's suckling shoots.

The pale green stem proudly stakes its place,
For it's hoping to meet you face to face.

The leaves of these seem here nor there,
But only eat one if you dare.

Semblance of sage but quite different to taste,
Ingest too much and you'll rot down to waste.

Travel up the stem some more,
It's turning paler, of that I'm sure.

At the top, the beauty is found,
A flower not befitting of the ground.

Plumes of purples, cones of pinks,
domeing inwards, each petal links.

Cones themselves of ivory and butter,
Speckled with brown, a gentle smutter.

The treasure inside is just for bees,
The nectar's needed, a warning to thieves.

On closer look, whiskers have sprouted,
Tiny and delicate but deadly in habit.

The beauty of the foxglove cannot be denied,
But those that indulge may not survive.

The plumes, the purples, the pinks and the cones,
Are the sirens for bees and for the bees alone.

The starving rabbits just can't help themselves,
it looks so sweet, so tasty, they desire nothing else.

With a knaw and chomp and chew, chew, chew, crunch.
The rabbits have finished up their beauteous lunch.

Yet what they don't realise, it's the other way round,
Lunch has finished them up, as they cramp down to the ground.

The churning, the hurling, the shaking with sweat,
Regurgitated morsels of what they just ate.

Such lessons are learnt in the most horrid way,
Digitalis will snare you if you are lead astray.

Standing and looking, oh yes fine with that,
but don't come too close dear, you'll be caught by the trap.

Behind many beauties, you'll soon come to see,
There's something more deadly, awaiting to pounce free

The moral of the tale, is foolishly simple to tell,
The foxglove may be alluring, it may be a belle.

What pleases the eye may snuff out the bearer,
if temptation wins out, you'll make the reaper your carer,